The initial inspiration for this one was a writing prompt that was something along the lines of “Character faced with really hard choice”.
So, naturally, I decided to rob that premise of any possible gravitas.
FYI, stuffed dormice? Totally a real recipe. Thank the Romans.
Copyright
J.B. Norman
Alda reaches up to touch her brother’s shoulder.
“Don’t worry, Roland,” she says, “you’ve got this.”
Sweat beads on the muscular Alchemist’s forehead as he is faced with a crucial decision. Roland’s mouth is dry. His tongue darts out to nervously lick cracked lips. He feels lightheaded.
When he, Alda, Lucia, Apolline, and Petra decided to take Celeste out for dinner to celebrate the publication of her monogram about the applications of Skremmler’s Combustible Powder, he didn’t think he’d have to do anything this hard.
“Well, Sir,” the waiter asks. “Soup or salad?”
“Uh…” Roland says.
“You can do it, Roland,” Alda says. “Just breathe.”
“Does Sir perhaps need more time to make his decision?” the waiter asks.
“Can I have both?” Roland asks, his voice cracking.
“Very good, Sir,” the waiter says, his tone indicating that he does not, in fact, consider this turn of events very — or even remotely — good. “Quite unorthodox.”
He turns to Lucia.
“And for the young Wilderling lady?” he asks.
“I’ll have the stuffed dormice,” Lucia answers, her furry lynx ears twitching in anticipation.
The others at the table give her looks that range from surprise to horror.
“Are you really having mice for dinner?” Roland asks.
“Oh, those poor mice,” Alda mutters.
“Apolline is having snails!” Lucia protests. “Why aren’t you being weird to her?”
“Yeah, but that’s just gross,” Roland says. “Having mice for dinner is gross and mean.”
Lucia glares at him from across the table.
“What? I’m a cat.”
“An excellent choice, Miss,” the waiter says. “It’s a well-established culinary fact that the smallest, cutest animals taste best. I believe their inability to defend themselves makes them especially tender.”
“I. am. a. cat!”
“Far be it from me to question the young lady’s taxonomy,” the waiter says. “And to drink? I imagine the tears of a small orphan girl with a sprained ankle would pair delightfully well.”
“Thanks a lot, Roland!” Lucia says. “Now the waiter thinks I’m some kind of cackling villain.”
“Perhaps the young lady would like for me to find a false moustache for her to twirl menacingly?” the waiter offers.
“Are you making fun of me?” Lucia asks.
The waiter shrugs.
“One does what one must to survive the living nightmare that is the service industry,” he muses.
“And you’re enjoying it!”
The waiter shrugs again.
“One does what one must to survive the living nightmare that is the service industry,” he muses.
Lucia slumps in her chair and sullenly crosses her arms over her chest.
“This is the worst monograph publication party ever,” she mutters.
“Perhaps the young lady would like an assortment of braised small woodland creatures for an appetiser?” the waiter offers.
“Shut up,” Lucia says.
“No, appetisers, then?”
“Shut up.”
Roland, for his part, is grinning broadly from ear to ear.
“Man,” he says. “I am going to give that waiter the biggest tip ever.”
“Much obliged, Sir,” the waiter notes.
“So,” Apolline says, turning to Celeste. “How are you enjoying the wine, Celeste?”
Poor Lucia.
I was going for “Passive-Aggressive, Sarcastic Waiter“, but I think I overshot and he just ended up being really, really mean…
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